


"The Only Thing We Have to Fear is Fear, Itself"

by ChatterBoxomie



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom
Genre: Animal Abuse, Don't say I didn't warn you, Formidophobia, Hallucinations, Humiliation, I'm just saying, Imaginary Friends gone wrong, Kinslaying, Mentions Of Schizophrenia, Mentions of Suicide, Murder, Other, Paranoia, Rage, Spectrophobia, Violence, You've been warned, bullying and harassment, but it is pretty descriptive, but there's a lot going on, i forget what else, it's not saw-graphic, mental breakdowns, or of stomach, quote by Roosevelt, vengeance, you probs shouldn't read if you're weak of heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7375117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChatterBoxomie/pseuds/ChatterBoxomie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It happened on a stormy night..."</p><p>Not. No horror story actually restricts itself to the middle of the night, or to stormy-weather.</p><p>Unfortunately. Bad things happen to good people, and to bad people, and to nobodies and cheerleaders and parents and children.</p><p>Evil doesn't just hurt people who "deserve it" -- true evil has no concept of vengeance.</p><p>Sometimes it might seem like a murderer is sympathetic, because they were "victimized" once, but it's important to remember: no one is innocent, no one is a saint, and, contrary to popular belief, nothing is all in your head.</p><p>It's not paranoia, kids, if they're really out to get you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Urban Myth Entry 1: "the Scarecrow": Smithsburg, Maryland

Tears stung at the back of her bloody eyelids, but Serina didn't make a sound. Her fingers ached, _stung_ , but she didn't dare move a muscle to give her sore bones relief. She was terrified of losing more skin to the wires twisting tightly round her limbs, prodding where they shouldn't be, tearing into flesh and bone. By now, she had stopped bleeding.

But if she moved even a little, she could bleed out. And she _couldn't_ die. She _**couldn't**_. Serina didn't _want_ to die. She was terrified of closing her eyes for even a _second_. Sometimes she couldn't help dozing off in her delirious state, and she would wake up, huffing and puffing, shaking and crying.

It'd been days. _**Days**_ since they'd strung her up like a sack of meat to dry in a warehouse.

Serina just didn't understand why _**nobody**_ would help her. How could people just walk right past her without batting an eyelash? She would've screamed by now had she still thought her vocal chords to be intact.

But the wires, digging into her throat ( _how had she not died? Why wouldn't God be merciful and let her die?_ ), reminded her, through every pounding moment of agony, that if she managed to get out of this alive, she would _**never**_ speak again.

The fence poked into her back, and she was almost certain that if the steel against skin hadn't robbed her attention, she would be feeling the splinters lodged in the back of her legs.

Minutes crawled like hours, hours like centuries, days like millennia, and still, _**nobody**_ came to her aid. Not a single soul. Some came only to poke at her suffering. She clenched her teeth, but said or did nothing. Just hung her head and wished desperately for a release.

But there is only so long someone can suffer before their anguish turns into hatred. She stowed in her self-pity for _almost a week_ before she began to grow angry, agony becoming careful observation in her delirious state of pain and fear. The anger that bubbled in places she didn't know she still had only fueled more hatred, until it felt as if her throat was filled with spite instead of the wires that choked every staggering breath she took.

They had wanted her to suffer. To die in agony. _**It wasn't fair**_. It wasn't fair that while they took the liberty to torment her, to tease and taunt her, they were granted the right to move on with their lives. The thought made her clench her fists, almost without thinking.

She felt nothing. No pain in her arms, no scraping. She heard the sick sound of skin tearing, but she didn't feel it. _At last_. The pain could disappear _only_ when she was close to death. She had read that somewhere, but couldn't remember where.

She would have felt relieved days earlier, relieved because _**finally**_ , death was coming - but now, all she felt was a hot-white rage, burning like a cup of magma in her torn rib-cage. _Was her heart still beating?_

She couldn't feel it at all. What if she was already dead? What if she was cursed to feel this agony for all eternity? What wrong had she committed to deserve this heinous act of inhumanity? She had never wronged anyone! She didn't deserve _**any**_ of this!

 _ **They**_ deserved this! _**They**_ deserved this agony! They deserved _**Hell.**_

Serina racked her mind. She didn't feel _**anything**_ \- no guilt, no sadness, _nothing_. How could she think something like _that_? Had her conscience died, already? What was she _now_ , without the part of her that made her who she was?

Was she not Serina Moore? Had that girl died when they'd strung up her body?

It must have been when Thalia had been the one to pin the crown of wires to her head.

"Queen of All," she'd said, with a smile.

Like she wasn't in the process of maiming her closest friend.

 _She would pay_. She _**had**_ to. She couldn't go unpunished.

But wouldn't it be better if she watched her world fall apart around her?

Wouldn't it be better for Thalia to lose her mind with _terror_ , as Serina had?

 _ **That**_ is how she would receive compensation for her crimes.

This wasn't the first time Serina had fantasized about bringing horror and pain to those who had strung her up like a scarecrow to rot in the sun. This was just the _first_ time her mind wasn't filled with guilt and self-disgust at the mere _glimpse_ of said fantasies.

Now, _nothing_ but the images brought her relief. They brought her a pleasure she knew wasn't right. She reveled in the images brought to her by the hand of Satan, almost as if he were tempting her, daring her to _do it, do it, do it_.

A tourist had passed by once. He had been so alarmed, had been on the verge of calling an ambulance, and she almost cried with joy, but then _**he**_ had come and lied. Lied through his teeth. _Lied_ like the _liar_ he was.

He claimed that she was a "Halloween decoration". It was October, so the tourist brought it, or so he _said_. (He didn't seem too convinced.) He kept shooting looks back over his shoulder on his return trip to his van. The only reason he'd stopped was because his wife had screamed.

They drove away.

And she suffered on. _He_ turned to her and grinned that sick grin she hated.

She wanted to wipe that look off his face. Wanted to hear him scream and beg like she had. Like he'd _made_ her.

Like they'd _**all**_ made her.

They would all pay. She swore it. Even if it cost her the remainder of her life, _they would pay_.

Nobody would get away with this. _**Nobody**_.

She would _never_ forget the faces of the people who hurt her. There were eight of them. _**Eight**_. And she remembered every one. She had memorized every single face, every name, every laugh and every word they had ever said to her while she was strung up on this God-forsaken fence.

She only grieved the loss of her _own_ voice. She would not be able to taunt them as they had done to her. And she would never smile, again. She probably couldn't, but if she _could_ , she _wouldn't_. There was nothing funny about what they had done to her, so there was nothing funny about what she would do _to them_.

It was a grim business, death was. And vengeance was no different.

( _On the path of revenge, dig two graves_ , she remembered.)

Where had they gotten the barbed wire from? This was a question that often plagued Serina, in the depths of a dark night. It was all she could think about under the blazing sun and the pouring rain.

It was all she could ponder when she felt her lips crack and begin to bleed.

She couldn't feel any of it, anymore. She missed feeling. At least it reassured her that she was still alive. Now, there was no way to tell whether she had died or lived.

Tears pricked at her eyes again, and this time, she let them fall.

When nobody could see, she cried like a baby. For the rest of the day until she tired herself out. Every time someone came to see her, and she was awake to see _them_ , she would memorize their face, how they talked, their posture - everything she could _possibly_ notice, was noticed.

Because they didn't help her, because they ignored her pain, which was worse than damning her, they deserved to meet the same fate as her tormentors. They would not make it past summer, would not go to college. _No_. It wasn't fair that she never got to see her dreams through to fruition while _they_ did. She was making a list, you see.

Of all who had to _die_ , to _suffer_.

Serina had to admit, now, before she died (if she was still alive), that in life, she'd set her expectations too high. She'd expected too much of people, too much of life. And that's why nothing had turned out right. She should have done the opposite.

Now, _after all that she had planned and dreamed of_ , her _**only**_ companion was a flow of rage that was almost soothing (it should have worried her, but _nothing_ worried her, anymore). The only other companion she had was the desire to hurt, to _break_.

Serina knew that this desire was going to be with her until she drew her last breath.

She hoped it wasn't something that had always been there, waiting for the right time.

And she wished she could laugh this off, pick herself up, and keep going on with her life.

But Serina knew it would be difficult to move her lips at all. Much less to smile, or even giggle. All she could use to communicate were her eyes. They were the only part of her that nobody had touched.

 _They were her best features_ , Thalia had said. So, she would let her stare at everyone who passed by. She was so _stupid_ , so _arrogant_ , if she thought there wouldn't be consequences after arming her with the knowledge of who her tormentors were.

She should've let them blind her, like they'd wanted. Because _**now**_ she had a list. And _**now**_ , she had a motive.

All she needed to do was get off this fence.

Easier said than done. She tried to sigh (like Serina used to, when she was finishing her homework in the middle of the night and there was something she just _couldn't_ figure out), but nothing happened. She suspected that her vocal chords might be down for the count.

And suddenly, Serina wasn't alone, like usual. Except this time, she could only feel their eyes. She couldn't see them. She was almost frustrated with the inability to turn her head. But she didn't move a muscle. She was still scared of triggering the nerves that would fire off pain.

She could hear his breathing. Hear the way it hitched, hear the gasp trying to free itself, but he said nothing. _Why wouldn't he say anything?_ Then, just as soon as he'd come, he was gone, and she was alone again.

It was _**hours**_ later when she saw the _last_ face she ever wanted to see, again.

Her brown eyes, like Serina's own, were wide with tears, a horrified scream choking in her throat. "No, my Serina, no! Oh my god, what have they done to you!?"

She was screaming almost wordlessly before she was coming to her, trying to disentangle the wires. Serina winced, very convincingly, before her mother flinched back like she'd been struck.

"I have to..." she mouthed, lip parted wide like a fish. She was crying harder, now.

( _Funny_. Serina had been doing the same just hours before.)

 _If only she'd been here to see it_. But no, _that_ thought wasn't welcome. Serina loved her mother more than anything else in this sad little world. She didn't want her to feel pain. Serina wanted her to turn around and pretend she hadn't seen her.

It was better than watching her mother fall apart without having even the ounce of strength to comfort her. This was probably the _worst_ that could have happened in her life.

Her mother kissed her then, crying, on her dry, rough cheek. Her fingers swept through her clumpy hair, sticky with blood and wet with tears of mother and daughter.

"I'm going to get help. Please, _please_ don't leave me, Serina."

She darted away then, faster than Serina had ever seen her run, and was gone within seconds. She deflated. She wouldn't live. She knew this without asking. As soon as they wrestled the wires off her, she would die from blood loss. The wires were preventing everything from falling to pieces. She had to get off this fence, before her mother returned.

But how?

She flexed her hand, experimentally, and felt, again, _**nothing**_.

This would hurt her mother, because Serina was almost certain that she would leave pieces of herself behind. But she _**had**_ to. This was so her mother wouldn't suffer watching her die.

Serina held her breath, in case she could still feel pain elsewhere, and with one quick wrench, yanked her right arm free of its bindings. The wires stung, but it was more like a bee sting than anything else. There was a salty taste in her mouth, and she realized she was crying.

That realization brought more tears to her eyes, and before she knew how to stop, her vision was blurring with sweat and tears as she yanked her other arm free. Once that was done, she fell free from her prison, her legs aching, as well as the rest of her body. She raised both arms, shocked stiff as she checked herself for any (expected) puncture wounds. For blood and bones.

Everything was nearly intact. Patches of skin were gone, and some muscles were torn, but nothing vital to her survival was falling out. To this, Serina sighed in relief. She would have hated to leave behind a liver or a lung.

Then, she checked her head. Winced at the slight pain, surprising herself.

_**It should've hurt much more.** _

_I can barely feel the pain_ , she realized, confused by this convenient truth.

The wires were still clinging to her body like a lover's fingers, but there was nothing she could do about it without hurting herself further.

Blood was all but _pouring_ from the indentations in her skin.

It was a wonder she had yet to die. _How much blood had she already lost?_

She turned her head, movements stiff, almost robotic.

The fence was still intact, covered in rusting blood, as well as fresh blood from her recent self-retrieved freedom, that ran down like a reminder of what had happened to her.

There were bits of flesh hanging from parts of the wires she had left behind, but other than that, she didn't seem to have severely impaired herself. Her movements were limited, but she still had them. Which was much more than what _might've_ happened if she had waited there until they pulled her out.

Already, her muscles were growing accustomed to the stiffness of the wires. The wires seemed to be _embedded_ in her skin. No matter how she pulled, she could not find the source. Wire was hanging about a foot down now, and she could find no end.

_What the fuck?_

She must be either dead or hallucinating (again).

She remembered, now, suddenly: her list. Eight people in all.

(Nine if she counted the one she hadn't seen.)

There was no smile on her face. There never would be, again.

This was a grim business, death was. And vengeance was no different.

 

* * *

 

Joseph Atkins was only fifteen when the Valedictorian went missing.

At the time, he didn't pay too much attention to it. People went missing all the time, and he didn't know her personally, so he figured there was no loss there. Sure, he felt bad seeing her poor mother lose her mind trying to find her, but he thought it was only a matter of time before she showed up.

Sometimes, smart kids ran away for a little while because of stress. He'd done it himself a few times. It was something that this town went through periodically. _What was her name, again?_

_Serina Moore?_

Yeah, that rang a bell. He'd heard a few rumors about her. Most of them good. But some of them - some of them were _horrible_ , and Jo couldn't believe people could say things like that about someone. Jo had no idea why, but some of the people around him insisted that she was some kind of witch, or the spawn of the Devil. He didn't believe it for a second. He wasn't _that_ stupid. He might be a sophomore, but it took a lot more than some half-assed rumor to fool _him_.

Her friends didn't believe it, either. Even though Thalia got a weird look in her eyes when they mentioned the missing girl. It looked to Jo like she didn't really care about Serina, or whatever had happened to her. She almost seemed... _happy_?

 _No_ , Jo figured it was just his imagination. After all, he had always assumed the worst of people. He didn't feel particularly worried that he didn't trust the girl's friends. They were probably worried, too, just like him. Probably _a lot more_. But then again, maybe they _weren't_.

 _ **Paranoid**_. They all whispered it behind his back.

Sometimes they were right. Mostly, though, they were wrong. And yet people _still_ called him that. He knew what he saw! He wasn't imagining the smile on Thalia's face when she said she "missed Serina".

 _What a_ _ **liar**_ , he was tempted to say, but he kept his mouth shut. His dad had told him plenty of times that people would never understand him - that even though he was a genius, nobody would ever believe him.

So he didn't say anything. He just nodded.

 _Like always_.

But when the other rumor, the one about a scarecrow who stared at you on the back-alley street out of town, the only way to get to the Farmer's Market on Route 64, _well_...

He had to check it out. He usually avoided paying attention to rumors like that. _It wouldn't help his condition_ , according to his mom. ("The last thing you need is more stress on your mind about some horror story the kids are telling. Just ignore it." That's what she'd said when he'd asked.)

But for some reason, Jo needed to see it, this time. So, he disobeyed his mother.

( _For the first time in his entire life_.)

He went alone. He didn't think it was a good idea to go with anyone else. He didn't have anyone he could really trust, yet. He had "friends" - but could you ever really _trust_ your friends?

But he didn't go through the road, like everyone else did. He was too scared. He didn't want the scarecrow to stare at him, if it _could_. He didn't want it to _see_ him.

Jo cut through the field, panting and wheezing by the time he reached the top of the hill. And there it was. He could see it from behind. Head bowed, blanketed in red. Whatever it was, _corn syrup or otherwise_ , it was _**everywhere**_. On the grass, on the fence, sticking to its patterned jeans.

He realized with a start that it was blood. _**That wasn't a scarecrow**_ _._

He couldn't stop staring. He tried to will himself to look away, but it was near impossible. _This couldn't be real_. Maybe it was just a Halloween decoration. Or maybe he was just losing it.

 _Right_?

But then he heard it. Breathing that wasn't his own.

 _Oh my god_ , he thought to himself, horrified. And suddenly, he remembered something.

The Valedictorian. He'd seen her once. Wearing that same shirt. It couldn't have been a coincidence, right?

_It wasn't._

Her legs were bloodied, arms torn, and he almost threw up right there.

What had they _done_ to her? He tripped in his haste to back away, and before he knew it, he was running faster than he'd ever run before. Down the hill, through the field, running blindly, without direction. Scared. Disgusted. Begging for a sign that everything was a nightmare. _A lie_.

Just like the rumors. Who even _started_ those rumors? Were _they_ the ones responsible for this?

There were tears pouring down his face, like an omen that would tell everyone how _**crazy**_ he was if it wound up being his imagination. He stopped, trying to calm down. What if it had just been his head making this all up? What if it was a trick of the mind? _A lie_?

 _No_. He knew the difference between what he had and schizophrenia. He'd never hallucinated before. Sure, he'd misinterpreted actions and words, but never before had he seen or heard something that wasn't really there.

 _Her mom_. He had to tell her. She had the right to know. _**What was wrong with this town**_?

Did everyone just walk past and _ignore_ her? How could they ignore something like _**that**_?

He couldn't believe they had the balls to call him crazy when they were all clearly much crazier than he was. _This whole fucking town was psycho_.

Jo would tell her mom, and she would tell everyone else. Anyone who didn't know, anyway.

The police had been looking for her, _hadn't they_? How had they _not_ seen her?

Had they not been looking in the right place? _Or had they not even been trying to find her_?

Another thought struck him. _**Had they known where she was**_ _?_

_Oh my god, what if they were the ones who'd done it? What if the_ _**whole town** _ _was in on it?_

_What was wrong with these people_? He was beginning to tremble, and he realized he was trespassing into dangerous territory. _Nothing good_ happened when he started to think like this.

But he couldn't lock himself up and stare wide-eyed at the wood paneling in his closet until he calmed down. Not this time.

He had to help the Valedictorian.

Joseph Atkins would never let those _psychopaths_ get away with their crime. He would tell the _whole world_ if he had to. He would move far away and never come back. He just had to convince his parents. Say it was getting worse. They'd get so scared, they'd send him away. And he would _never_ have to come back.

"Jo?"

He whirled, tears blinding his eyes as he shook with a mixture of emotions he couldn't sort out, the most prevalent being a wild, gagging _**fear**_.

It was Thalia. He saw something in her face he didn't like.

And suddenly, _he knew_.

The horrible realization struck like lightning, just once, and he was running from her without looking back, even as she called out to him in ( _faux_ ) concern.

He was collapsing on a vaguely familiar porch-step before he even knew what had happened. Sobbing into his hands, shaking uncontrollably.

And, without thinking, he was tearing open his bag, ripping out a piece of paper from his notebook, and scrawling, in hasty handwriting - tears stained the page. It was a note for the Valedictorian's mother.

He had to start over three times before he finally managed something that was legible.

He'd recognized the porch, now. The house belonged to the valedictorian and her mom.

In the few times Jo had seen her around, he had never seen anybody that could be her father.

He left the note under the door, through the tiny crack. She'd find it, _she had to_. He couldn't tell her himself, not like this, not a mess like this because she wouldn't believe him. And despite what he owed her, despite owing her the truth in person, he _**hated**_ being weak like this. And he _**hated**_ being _seen_ like this more than anything in the world.

So, she would not get the truth in person, but she would _have_ the truth - whether she chose to believe it ( _or care_ ), or not.

Then, he was gone, racing down the sidewalk, close to vomiting wherever he laid his eyes.

Moments later, the door opened, and an older woman stepped out. Her eyes were red, puffy from the weeks spent crying, pale circles under her eyes from the restless nights spent pacing and fretting and hoping that Serina would come home.

They'd told her not to go looking, that whoever took her daughter might be baiting her, or waiting for ransom. But her hesitation ceased to exist when she looked over the note.

She picked it up and had only to read the _first_ sentence before her heart nearly stopped in its place.

_Your daughter needs help. She's on the road out into Route 64. Please hurry._

It was stained by something she couldn't identify, and so she pulled on her jacket, since it was getting cold out, and pushed the warnings of the police out of her head. This was her _daughter_ , and that meant she had a duty, as a mother, to see her home safely. To care for her.

She was pounding down the street before she knew it, forgetting everything behind.

A friend of her daughter's, _Thalia_ , watched her turn the corner behind the elementary school, but she didn't stop to explain.

And she was glad she hadn't. Maybe two minutes later and her daughter might've given up, might've died. _She_ almost died, herself, once she saw what they'd done to her only child.

She caught a glimpse of the blood, the peeling skin, the twisting barbed wire. And her chest tightened like somebody had stepped on her ribs.

The tortured look in her daughter's eyes nearly did her in for good. She looked so hurt, so betrayed, so _angry_. That was a look she had _never_ wanted to see in Serina's eyes.

She kissed her daughter, ignoring the blood and the tears, and promised to come back with help. She'd left her phone on the kitchen table. She hadn't thought she would need it when she opened her door.

But when she returned, her daughter was gone.

And in her whole life, Marianne Moore had never screamed so loud. And never sobbed even half as much as she did when she fell to her knees, screaming her only child's name.

Her dead child's name.

Her _murdered_ little girl. _Someone_ had done this to her. Why _else_ would they come back to take her? Where _else_ would she have gone?

She couldn't have just picked herself up and left. (And why _would_ she?)

Marianne Moore would _never_ forgive them. _**Never**_.

 

* * *

 

They looked for her for months to come.

The police didn't outright admit that they felt that the whole mess was _their_ fault, but they _did_ tire themselves out looking for her. Everyday, more would become restless, lose sleep.

Some couldn't take it and quit. Others transferred. In the end, there were only five policemen left in the whole town. Two ended up taking their own lives. That was when they started finding the deer.

Fawns, actually. Wires twisted around their broken bodies. Their mouths were opened in what could only have been their attempts to scream. Their eyes were dark. Some of their eyes were completely _gone_. Or ruined beyond sight. Skin was torn, and muscles sliced clean off. There were hints of white bone underneath.

It was a grim reminder of what had happened to Serina Moore. A grim reminder that God would never let them forget their crime in ignoring her pain. Nobody laughed for months. Everybody was terrified of going to sleep and never waking up.

The fawns weren't found in strange places, like alleys or empty fields. They were always found bound up and tied to someone's fence. There were eight fawns with crowns of wire cutting into their small heads. And those eight were pinned to the fences of eight of Serina's classmates. It wasn't too long before people began to suspect that those families were at risk of what happened to Serina.

There was an unspoken assumption: Serina's death wasn't an accident, or a mistake.

And whoever had killed her wasn't done.

There was no evidence, nothing to possibly point the police in the direction of who did it. Everything just wound up going right back to the fawns, to the children. They couldn't make connections - why the fawns? And who those specific eight? They had nothing in common, other than a few classes in the same school. One was African-American, and the other an immigrant from the Czech Republic.

People began to think the children had done something to deserve it. No one wanted to say it, but it was general knowledge that Serina was popular, but she was also notorious for her loose hands. Who knew what kind of enemies she had made? Who knew what kind of involvement those kids had in her eventual demise?

Those were the same kids who had spread the rumor about the "scarecrow", after all.

There wasn't any evidence to connect them to her death, either. It was too random, too many coincidences. They all shared classes with Serina, but half of them claimed they didn't know her. And the few who did, either liked her or didn't know her well enough to comment.

Of all the kids to be "marked", only one received a mixed reaction: Thalia Gorges.

The officers believed whoever had killed Serina might have targeted Thalia because the two of them were close friends. They had grown up together. They couldn't quite understand the connection between Thalia and the other seven students, however.

Thalia didn't interact with the others, and the others tended to avoid her.

Not many people liked Thalia, not like they had liked Serina.

And the people who once liked her suddenly couldn't stand to be around her. They were scared. They didn't know if being in the same room with her for much longer than a minute would mark _them_ , too. Nobody knew what would happen to the marked townsfolk. It became commonplace for people to cross the street to avoid crossing their paths.

This went on for months, to the point where Thalia found herself eating lunch alone every day and walking home alone, over and over. She just wanted this to _end_. Thalia had always hated her home, but she had never really hated the _town_ , too.

And she had _never_ imagined that everybody would make such a big deal out of a couple dead fawns. Serina's mother was expected ( _it might be a sign that Serina was out there_ , she claimed), but why _everyone else_? These were usually rational people who didn't pay attention to _any kind_ of threat. Some of them had even protested the building of a new dam by standing across the river and chanting at the construction workers.

And the people in her school were ridiculous. They all hated Serina. They _always_ had. So why were they suddenly acting like she was a saint? Like she had died "an innocent"? That couldn't be further from the truth. Thalia _knew_ Serina. She knew her better than anyone else in this hick town.

She was a bitch who didn't deserve her crown.

That's why Thalia had crowned her. _That's_ why.

Serina had always had _everything_ Thalia didn't.

The perfect friends, perfect grades, perfect attendance, perfect _everything_. People practically worshiped the ground that silly bitch walked on. She had a mother who didn't glower at her and call her useless, she didn't have a father ( _Thalia would be_ _ **so lucky**_ ), she didn't have a brother who hated her.

Serina even had an admirer. A real admirer who liked her for more than her looks. And her looks. Don't get her _started_ on that. Thalia was always the perfect picture of beauty - a natural beauty with no makeup and modest clothing that never gave too much away. She had a nice enough smile, never needed braces, plucked eyebrows. Her skin was a perfect milky brown. Like expensive chocolate.

Hair straight as a razor. Curves that every girl should want and every boy should drool over.

Serina? That bitch wore makeup and boys _still_ liked her. Every boy claimed he wanted "a natural beauty", but no one was strong enough to look away when she click-clacked on by in those 2-inch heels. She wore lipstick and eyeliner and pinched her cheeks to add color to her pale features, wore form-fitting clothing and kept lotion in her bag (Thalia _knew_ what that lotion was _really_ for), hair a mess of curls, smile full of wire because of her braces.

And yet, that _**idiot**_ Collins still had to be head-over-heels in love with Serina, _not Thalia_.

Because she was funny? Hot? Smart? Because she'd been accepted into Stanford?

Because she didn't hate anybody, no matter _what_ they did to her?

(That's what Serina _claimed_. Thalia didn't believe her _one bit_.)

( _Everybody_ hated somebody.)

Serina Moore let people think she was perfect when Thalia knew she was more flawed than everybody else. They all put her on a pedestal. Valedictorian, Homecoming Queen, Most Likely to Succeed, beloved friend and best daughter who would _never_ disappoint her mother no matter _who_ she made out with or _who_ took off her bra under the bleachers.

(The worst thing had to be that Serina's mother would never believe _anyone_ if they told her what Serina liked to do on Friday nights.)

Thalia hated her more than she'd ever hated _**anyone**_. And she was sick of being treated worse than dog shit just because she had done what _everyone_ had wanted to do. Thanks to _**her**_ , thanks to this _mess_ , Thalia couldn't sleep anymore. She spent hours freaking out about the stupid fawns, wondering what it could mean, worrying about what would happen if she tried to sleep.

There were bags under her eyes. She didn't sleep the night before graduation. The next day, she had to work for _**three hours**_ to make herself look _half_ as nice as she'd always dreamt about on this special day (more important than prom - it was the day she would _finally_ be able to leave this _**nothing**_ town). She tugged on her clothes, her cap and gown, fluffed out her hair, pulled on her flats.

She looked so beautiful. But her eyes _ruined_ her beauty. She'd never had the jewels that Serina had. Serina had always had the prettiest eyes, always shining and happy. When she smiled, people everywhere claimed her to be a saint. An angel.

 _No wonder everyone loved her_ , Thalia thought to herself with a twinge of despair.

And just like that, she felt a prick of tears at her eyes, but she refused to cry, not on _her_ graduation day. She would _**never**_ let herself miss that _whore_.

Serina _deserved_ what she got.

(Right?)

At the ceremony, everyone cried. There wasn't a dry eye in that whole stadium. Thalia hoped it was out of happiness. But then the principal had to dedicate a whole speech to that bitch.

He went on and on about how wonderful she was, what a shame it was to lose her in such a way, how she never deserved such a gruesome end, how she had her whole life ahead of her, how it was _stolen_ away by a _soulless_ monster.

Thalia tried not to let her irritation show, and chanced a look at some of the others.

Tanner looked nearly on the verge of tears, and so did that Ashlee girl he was always hanging around. Everything was over. Why were they crying? _Idiots_.

And then, suddenly, everyone was quiet. Even the babies had stopped crying.

She saw a tear slip down the photographer's cheek.

Then, she saw why.

Marianne Moore, Serina's mother, who hadn't come out of her house in _months_ , was up on the podium. She took the microphone from the principal and looked at every single one of the graduating students.

And said something that Thalia would _never_ forget.

"I know someone in this stadium took my daughter from me. She will never graduate, and this world is emptier for the absence of her greatness. Murder is a mortal sin, and murder of an innocent?" She paused, eyes locking with Thalia's. Thalia tried to look away, but it was like she couldn't. She was frozen in place. "Whoever you are, you will _not_ escape the hand of God."

Then, she handed the microphone back to the principal, and she was gone. _Just like that_. She just left, without a single look back. Probably to hole herself up in her house again. Nobody said or did anything for a whole minute. Eventually, the principal continued his speech, but his voice was nervous, now. Strained. The smile forced.

Everyone tried to forget what had happened. _But no one did_. There were cheers when they graduated and the newly-chosen valedictorian gave his speech (which he had scrambled to assemble, since Serina's disappearance was _so sudden_ ), but Thalia wasn't sure whether the tears running down their faces were from happiness or fear.

 

* * *

 

Marianne Moore committed suicide a week later. She overdosed on her medicine. The same one that was supposed to help her get through her grief. And a week after that, the bodies started to show up.

Every single one of the people who'd been involved in Serina's death was killed in the same way that _she_ had. Strung up exactly the same as the fawns.

Thalia began to grow restless, as the numbers dwindled down.

2 down.

5 down.

She was the last one. The last one still alive. Tanner had been first.

Then Sophia. Then Michael, Alex, Ashlee, Jack, and Ian.

And countless others. People whose names she didn't even know.

Thalia was the last one. She was waiting for him.

And she was seeing scarecrows everywhere, now. She knew it was _him_. Trying to _scare_ her.

Trying to tell her, _I know what you did._

The police thought it was whoever had killed Serina, but all the people who had a part in that were killed, _themselves_. So it couldn't be them. It had to be Joseph Atkins. That little shit had _seen_ their handiwork.

She knew. He had looked at her with disgust, with hatred.

So, when it happened, when he came, she would fight back.

There was no way she was going down for this. _No way in Hell_.

And it happened on a Friday. On the 5th.

Nearly eight months _on the dot_ after Serina had been found by her mother, and then subsequently vanished. Thalia was drying herself after taking a bath, smiling down at her suitcase, thinking about packing lotion and that sweater her mother had brought her at the mall in Hagerstown.

She was finally moving out, going to live in New York with her uncle until college started up in the Fall. Her mom had gotten so _freaked_ that she'd wound up arranging for Thalia to leave a month earlier than she was supposed to.

Her dearest mother finally showed that she cared about Thalia.

 _Too little, too late_ , as Serina always said.

But when she turned around to ask her mom what was for dinner, there _**she**_ was.

She didn't know what to say or do. It wasn't Joseph, like she'd thought. She'd been _ready_ for Joseph. She _**hadn't**_ been ready for Serina.

It was the most _horrible_ thing she'd ever seen.

Hands cut open, skin peeling, flesh dangling from bits of the wires still strung around her like a tight-fitting dress. Tighter than her usual get-up. Crown still winding around her forehead, mouth permanently set into a frown. Not that pretty smile, anymore. The braces were gone, she realized with a jolt.

There wasn't that same slight _bump_ from the wires over her teeth that used to show through her cheeks when she looked at you. _Where had they gone_?

And her eyes. Once her most beautiful feature, once the prized possession Thalia envied night after night; they were clouded with the blackness of hate, not a single hint of the girl Thalia used to know.

"Holy shit," was all she could say in her shock.

Thalia had never really thought about what they'd been doing to her.

She'd just been thinking, _finally_. _**Finally**_.

Serina didn't respond. Didn't move or twitch a muscle. Just stared at her, eyes fixed on her without relent, expression unchanging.

Thalia's heart was beating too fast. The door was to Thalia's right. So she ran.

She ran, and she ran, without daring to look behind her.

A block down from her house, still in a towel, Thalia stopped to catch her breath.

There was no sign of Serina. _Where was she_? Had she just been seeing things?

Was the stress of all this messed-up shit in this jacked-up town finally getting to her?

Thalia's feet did her thinking for her. She was halfway through town when she caught sight of her old friend, Corintha. Her tangled mess of red hair was unkempt. Not like the healthy curls she _used_ to have.

Her eyes were circled with dark patches of skin.

Thalia realized with a start that Corintha had taken Serina's death worse than anyone else, second only to the bitch's mother. Corintha looked worried about something, jumpy.

"Corie!"

The redhead turned, empty green eyes searching, blind. Then, they locked eyes.

Corintha's expression twisted with confusion.

Thalia knew it was because of the towel.

"Corie, you have to help me! Please! Call the cops! Call the ambulance! _Anybody_!"

Corintha didn't say a word. She didn't even sound like she'd heard a word Thalia had said.

"Corie! Are you _listening_ to me!? Someone is trying to kill me!" Nothing, yet. Panic was beginning to set in, for the first time. " **CORIE**!"

"You chased her, didn't you?" Corintha's voice was so quiet, she had to strain to hear it.

That's why she didn't understand. Maybe she'd misheard. "What?"

"You didn't listen when she pleaded for you to stop." Corintha was angry, for maybe the first time since they'd met. Her tiny hands were balled up, and she looked like, if given the chance, _she_ would kill Thalia, herself. Thalia felt afraid, suddenly, of the little redhead. She was glad for the distance.

"You chased her up to the fence, and you _killed_ her. You ignored her screams, and you laughed at her, and she suffered alone. She bled out, and she died. And then you took her and you buried her so that her mother wouldn't find her."

Thalia couldn't believe what she was hearing. She was being chased by - by _whatever_ that horrible creature was, and this silly little bitch had the _audacity_ to waste her time with groundless accusations? "Corintha, what the fuck are you even talking about? I just told you that I'm being _chased_. By a killer, Corie! _A_ _killer_! What the _hell_ does that have to do with Serina?"

Corintha didn't listen to her. She sounded like she was half-gone. "You deserve what's coming to you, Thalia. They all did, and now it's _your_ turn."

The panic from before was back. "Are you out of your _**fucking**_ mind? There's someone trying to _kill_ me and you're just standing around making idle threats? What the hell do you think, dumbass, that you're innocent in all of this? You _knew_ , and you didn't do anything, either! Don't try to point the finger at me when you're guilty, too!"

"We're all going to pay. I will never forget those eyes. _Never_."

Corintha looked scared. _That's_ what that look in her eyes was. Not sadness. _Fear_.

"Corie, there was something _wrong_ with that damn girl! You have to believe me! I did everyone a favor! She was nuts!" Corintha didn't say anything, now. "Why won't you believe me?" Thalia was becoming hysterical, now. " _ **What is wrong with you people**_?"

"We can't escape the hand of God."

Those words, again.

Corintha was just repeating them, over and over. She wasn't going to be of any use, Thalia decided. The girl was half-mad. Corintha turned after maybe the fifteenth time of saying those words, and began lumbering up the street towards her house, almost like she was in a dream.

" _You're not going to help me_?" screamed Thalia, but before she could think of going after the redhead, maybe smack the shit out of her and wake her up, there was a sharp _crack_ from behind her. She spun around, spotting those pitch black eyes, and that glint of silver in the darkness.

Thalia began to back away, slowly, then she quickened her pace and turned, breaking out into a full sprint, thinking that she would be fine if she could just make it to the station.

But she never made it that far. There was a sharp pain in her ankle that caused her to scream out, and then a thundering _crack_ , and she almost tore open her face when she fell face-first into the hard, unforgiving ground.

There was a sick crunching sound, and Thalia sobbed, holding her pouring nose as she sat and crawled back, away from the approaching figure swathed in twisting wires. The skin on her ankle was red, raw, peeling. It was almost impossible for her to look away from Serina, though.

" _ **What do you want**_?" she screamed at her, terrified and angry and agonized, all at once.

A wire struck out suddenly, without warning, catching her by one of her ankles and pulling her forward. She screamed out, but it didn't seem to bother Serina in the least.

Before long, she was suspended in the air, head hanging towards the floor, both wrists held tightly to either side, legs forced apart by the wires encircling her ankles. Her sobs made no difference to Serina. ( _Not Serina. Serina would never dare do this_.) She would die here, she realized with a cold terror.

For a long moment, nothing was heard but the sobs of Thalia Gorges.

Then, there was a high-pitched whining sound, a gurgling, like a cat trying to scream. Thalia realized it was Serina. _Speaking_.

Even without looking into her face, Serina's guttural screeching made Thalia shudder.

"I'll see you in Hell," Serina rasped, the last words Thalia had spoken to her before wrapping the crown around her head.

The laugh, the one that was meant to mimic Thalia's own, was terrible. It had none of Serina's old cheeriness, none of her warmth. It was wrong, _all_ _ **wrong**_ , like someone was dragging knives across her chest and _forcing_ her to make those sounds.

Thalia felt a tugging on her ankles, and then, she had an accident for the first time since she was five years old.

And it was all over her face.

The laugh echoed out into the warm air, bringing it back tenfold, before there was a tearing, a scream torn by gurgles and weak protests, and then, Thalia was gone.

All that remained was blood. And a horrible stench of piss.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Thalia was all over the news, like she'd always wanted.

Nobody ever found the killer of Serina Moore, or of Thalia Gorges, or of any of the other graduates.

Eight dead in eight days.

They say the town is cursed, now. _Smithsburg, Maryland._

They burned down the old Farmer's Market near Route 64. No one likes taking that way out of town. They'd rather cut through Twin Springs Drive than go anywhere near Trovinger Mill Road.

No one has dared bring their children there since 1976. And every child who's come of age, who's graduated from high school in Smithsburg, never lived to move out of town.

No one knows who's doing this, or _why_. Or how. They don't know where the bodies are.

Thalia Gorges was the only person who ever left any trail of her death behind.

It's considered bad luck to move into Smithsburg if you're thinking about starting a family.

That child is marked for death as soon as they've seen a scarecrow where it shouldn't be. People have moved away, and _still_ went missing. No one knows what happens to the people who disappear - and they're not so sure they _want_ to know. Corintha was found dead of asphyxiation at the age of thirty-two, in the room they gave her at a mental health clinic in Pittsburgh. They say she couldn't handle the fear and saved up her medication for an overdose. Her nurses whispered rumors about Corintha screaming, " _ **Take it down! The scarecrow is watching me! It's telling her where I am**_!"

And Joseph Atkins lived his whole life in fear, up until the day he turned twenty-one, where he was found hanging from the doorway to his own home. Nobody had seen him until the morning, but no one was surprised. He jumped at the slightest of sounds and whimpered every time someone talked too suddenly. He wasn't meant to live long, the poor boy.

He hung himself so that he was staring right at the scarecrow his neighbor had put up across the street for Halloween.

But no one talks about it, anymore. Maybe they're hoping that one day, it'll all just _stop_.

Until then, Smithsburg will never be anything more than a graveyard.

And until then, that hill will always be littered with wire, and people have said that if you drive down 64, you can sometimes see a scarecrow hanging from the wire fence around an empty lot.

And sometimes, if you stare long enough, it'll stare back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I lied.
> 
> This might have nothing to do with the Creepypasta characters you know and "love" (? for some reason), but I created these stories around several Octobers ago, in the spirit of Hallow's Eve (or "Halloween"), and decided that they could either match up with "creepypasta" lore, or stand alone and be just scary stories to read in the middle of the night.
> 
> In truth, they may not be so much "terrifying" as they are creepy. And fucked-up.
> 
> If you have a fear of mirrors, though, or of scarecrows, or anything else fucked-up like that, then I suggest you stay as far away from these two projects as possible.
> 
> If anyone has a specific fear or horror-idea and would like to see it played out in a similar fashion, let me know.
> 
> If you like one of the creepy fuckers I make up and want me to do something further with them, or want to make artwork, or whatever, let me know and link me to it. (I've been asked before.)
> 
> You might want to stay away from farms and small towns for a while, after reading this particular piece.
> 
> (Also, never assume a scarecrow is just a scarecrow -- or a "Halloween decoration". lol)


	2. Urban Myth Entry 2: "Eli Foster": Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only way to stay safe is to smash every mirror you see.
> 
> If you see him, it's too late. It means he's already seen you, and he's moving in for the kill.

Okay. Let's get this straight. I never wanted any of this to happen. I'm not who you all think I am. I promise that all those things he did - that was never intentional. Not on my part, anyway. He's just... just a coward. A damn coward. He thinks of the worst possible things he can do to people, and then he follows them, and then he does the most terrible things to them. All with that same stupid mask.

I've never hated _**anyone**_ more than I hate that guy. It was all his fault this happened.

So you probably have no idea who this is, or what I'm talking about. Alright, I was thinking it'd be easier to tell my story if none of you knew what my name was, but you deserve to know the truth. Everyone needs to be warned before this sick bastard gets to your families, too. (He already got rid of mine.)

I don't know why he does these things, and he won't ever tell. In fact, he doesn't really say much. And when he does, it doesn't make a lick of sense. And I need you all to understand something very important, right off the bat. Because unless you understand this, you won't understand the rest of what I'm about to tell you.

 _ **HE AND I ARE NOT THE SAME PERSON**_. We may (unfortunately) share a likeness to the other, but trust you me, we are _nothing_ alike. I don't even think he knows what _family_ means, or _love_. Or _protect_. Another thing?

I'm a talker. I talk a lot. I've always been found guilty of being a 'chatty Kathy', and I got in a lot of trouble for it when I was younger. But this guy? I think his mouth must be broken or something, because he rarely opens his mouth. I hate him _so much_. I know I keep repeating that, but you just don't understand the seriousness of it.

None of you will ever hate anyone as much as I hate Eli Foster. And I've always hated that people called me that. Especially since I'm _not_ Eli, and he _isn't_ me. Okay, so now you probably REALLY have no idea what I'm talking about. Allow me to clear up the confusion.

My name is Julianna Foster. No, Eli is _not_ my fucking brother. Please, don't _**ever**_ suggest that. He killed my real brother, right in my face, and I couldn't do a single damned thing to stop him. So don't you ever suggest to me that we might be related.

Eli is actually just what I call him because no one ever actually gave the fucker a name. Figures. I mean, he was _my_ "imaginary" friend. Why the hell would anyone else call him anything? His name was Julien Foster. I wanted him to feel like he was welcome, like he was a part of the family.

Drat bit of good that did anyone. In fact, it was probably because of my stupid urge to have an imaginary friend that all this happened. I should have just contented myself with the friends I already had. The flesh-and-blood ones. Why do we, as humans, always have to take what we have for granted and fuck everything up in the process?

Let me tell you what happened from the beginning.

I was six years old when I first heard of imaginary friends. My friend Sara had one, and so did Janelle.

They were the first friends I ever had, so I didn't want to be left out. I asked them how to make one, since mom was always telling me that imaginary things were made up by the people who talked about them. They looked at me with a funny face and told me that their friends weren't _made_. They were _found_.

So, I tried finding one. I looked everywhere, but I never _found_ what I wanted. Every time my mother took me to the park, I spent hours searching for an imaginary friend, instead of playing with the other kids. And I didn't find anything. You can imagine the crushing disappointment I felt.

I was the odd one out. I was the only one with no stories to tell at snack time about something 'Arthur' did, or something that 'Maria' said. I felt so stupid, slow, like I was doing something wrong.

So, one day, I took my mom's advice, and I just made one up. Or, I tried to. But when I was little, not much stood out to me. I wasn't very creative. I was a girl who always colored in the lines, who never said anything weird, who always smiled pretty for the pictures and never snuck a single cookie before dinner.

My mom always said I was her "little angel", and my big brother had to hide his snorts of laughter behind his hand.

As all things stood, I had no idea what to make my new friend look like. Since I couldn't decide what his face should look like, because I couldn't "imagine" anything cool or new or cute, I just decided that he liked to wear a mask, like the one I saw in the scary movie my mom and dad were watching late one night. I had been trying to get a cup of water, and I had heard my mother screaming, so I dropped the glass and, like any frightened child, ran to find her.

She was sitting, laughing, on the couch with my dad. He saw me and apologized with a slight grin, explaining to me that mommy was just scared because of the mean man in the movie. I looked to the TV, confused, and saw the paused screen that was zoomed in on the eerie, blank mask of the man.

I initially mistook it for his face, and asked what happened to it. My dad explained it was a 'hockey' mask, that it wasn't actually his face. He just wore it to cover how ugly he looked underneath it.

So, I decided my new friend would wear a mask to hide how ugly he looked underneath it. I had no idea what "ugly" even meant, since my mom hated when my brother called people names, so she made him swear not to do it in front of me, and none of my friends had any idea what it was, either. I learned later what it was in the third grade, and felt bad for calling my friend ugly.

(He didn't actually mind. It took a lot to grind on his nerves - coming from _me_ , anyway.)

I made him wear a mask, for lack of creativity, and decided that he liked to wear plaid, button-up blouses and jeans, like normal little boys. I decided that he would have the same kind of hair as my dad, so he could really feel like the brother I always wanted, one who didn't ignore me or try to make me cry just because it was _funny_.

So, in my mind, I was "imagining" a boy with black hair and my cousin Anthony's blue eyes.

(I always liked Anthony. He was nice and he let me play with his toys while he watched TV with my brother.)

And then, I waited. I waited for days, _weeks_ , but Julien never showed up.

I was very quiet those days, because I didn't know how to feel about it. One day, I told my brother about it, and he laughed at me. "Why do you want one, anyway? Maybe Julien's older than you and doesn't feel like hanging out with a stupid little girl. Did you ever think of that?"

I cried when he said that, and even though my mom scolded him, I felt embarrassed. _Maybe he was right_.

And what if he was? What if I was being stupid for thinking _**anyone**_ wanted to play with me?

I went outside, then, thinking maybe it was time I moved on and played with the neighbors' kids.

I remember wiping my tears and being angry, angrier than I'd ever been at that age, because I was sick of my brother always treating me like an idiot. (I remember thinking, " _Who does he think he_ **is**?")

And then I looked up, and there he was, as if he'd _always_ been there.

Julien Foster. Blue eyes that shone behind his mask, jeans, a red plaid long-sleeve. The heavy coat he wore over it wasn't part of what I had created, but I shrugged it off. It was winter. Maybe imaginary people got cold like the rest of us. Though I doubted it was warming him up at all, since he had the zipper opened.

(My mom had always told me that wearing an open coat was like wearing no coat at all.)

His mask didn't really freak me out because I was just so GLAD that my brother was wrong, that everyone was wrong. I had actually made up my own imaginary friend. I was pretty stoked.

And despite his unnerving appearance, Julien was really nice to me. He was a little quiet, but I didn't mind. Because I had a lot to tell him. I took him to the park to meet my friends, but they all thought he was creepy and didn't want to play with him.

I remember getting really mad at them for just ignoring the hard-earned product of all my tears, but Julien just shook his head and took my hand, leading me to the swings where I sat and cried in a fit of anger for a little while. The whole time, he just patted my hand and soothingly pressed his other hand against my back, like my dad and Anthony did when I was upset or hurt.

In that moment, I remember thanking him tearfully and telling him he was a better brother than my own. He stiffened a bit, but then he was laughing and that was the first time I'd heard such a sad sound.

After that, most of my childhood is kind of a blur. But no matter what happened, Julien was _**always**_ there. When I was nine, my mom called me down to dinner. I was playing with Julien in my bedroom, and he looked up when he heard her footsteps. She knocked once on the door, accompanied by, "Anna, come down for dinner."

He looked at me, with that same seriousness he always had. He was pretty serious for a fourth grader, I remembered thinking. He acted a lot like Anthony, in that way. He asked me who "Anna" was.

I laughed and told him that's what my mom called me. I also told him that when you loved someone, you usually called them something cute because that was how you showed you cared about them. (I was too young to understand it, myself, and that was how my dad had explained it.)

"Oh," Julien said, in that same, hesitant way he always did. Julien had a habit of always sounding sad, even when he was happy. He asked me if he could call me Anna, too, and I told him that he could. (Because he was my friend. My friends called me Anna, too.)

After that, I decided it was only fair for him to get a _cute_ _name_ , too. So I started calling him Eli.

Then, I went down for dinner, ate half of it, and snuck the rest of the plate to my room, with the usual, "I'm going to eat the rest in my room!" My mom said the usual:

"Clean up when you're done!"

And that was that. I gave my friend his share of dinner, and that was the first time I think he ever sounded happy.

"Thank you, Anna."

"You're welcome, Eli."

 

* * *

 

I was twelve when I finally told one of my friends about Julien. She looked at me weirdly, and said, "You have a _what_?"

"An imaginary friend. I mean, he _**used**_ to be imaginary. But he's so real, much more real than the food we're eating right now," I told her, oblivious to what she might say next.

I don't really know what I was expecting. It was weird for a seventh grader to still have imaginary friends. I should have known that, at the very least, she probably wasn't going to take it like she took her pie. The revelation didn't go as smoothly as I would've hoped. (Had I thought there was something to hope for, anyway.)

I hadn't expected to fall into the bottom rung so _quickly_. All because I'd admitted to having an imaginary friend.

(Looking back, I probably needed professional help if I was seeing something that "didn't exist".)

(Children's imaginary friends are usually imaginary because even _they_ don't see them, but I didn't know that at the time.)

Seventh grade became a waste of time, pretty quickly - I felt like I wasn't learning anything that I couldn't learn from Eli, and what was the point of making friends who weren't _really_ my friends? So, I started to skip school.

At first, just a few periods. At one point, though, I found myself leaving home to go straight to McDonald's or the mall. Or just a local playground Eli and I liked spending time in.

I know it was stupid. I don't need you to point it out. It's _too late_ for opinions, anyway.

 _ **Way**_ too late.

It was also during this time that Eli started to get angry. At least, I don't _remember_ him ever being angry, before.

I'd never seen him be so scary until then, either. But one day, when I was walking to McDonald's (skipping class - _again_ ), Sara, the person who'd _ruined my life_ by treating my childhood innocence like it was a _**joke**_ , spotted me crossing the street, swinging my bag and laughing at something Eli had said.

I can't even _remember_ what he had said. But then she came walking over, _marching_ ,actually, and put her hand on her hip, imitating the older girls in movies, and started to laugh. It wasn't the _usual_ laugh I used to hear her giving to her other friends, either. It was a vicious laugh. The type that means nothing but trouble.

Eli didn't say anything at first. He just watched her, quiet as usual, waiting to see what she would do.

I, on the other hand, was more scared than curious. I had always thought Sara was nice, but after everything she'd put me through, all the rumors she'd started about how "crazy" I supposedly was, I realized people sometimes didn't care about you, even when they _said_ they did. That you shouldn't believe _**everything**_ everyone said to you. Eli had told me that when I came home crying one day because of something she'd said about me.

I suppose the only reason it got worse is because I never told my mom about it. Sure, I talked to her about everyday things we had in common, and things we did together, like movies and going to the Farmer's Market for a slice of cake. But I only told the important stuff, the stuff that _bothered_ me, to Eli.

He read everything I did, played every game I had, and saw everything I had seen. So it was only natural to feel like I had more in common with Eli. I trusted him with my life, which is the worst possible thing you can ever do.

(With anyone, in general, though Eli is the worst possible example of a "true" friend.)

Anyway, Sara just laughed at me for a few more minutes before seeing that I was staring at her without having much of a physical reaction. (The truth was that I didn't actually understand why she was laughing. I still don't.) I did that a lot - or so I was _told_. That was kind of the reason my mom was always so worried about me. I didn't show much of a reaction to things. I was either smiling or wearing a blank expression.

I refused to cry or scream unless Eli was around to comfort me.

I should have known what kind of effect it would have on him. I was a mentally ill child, I know that, now, and in the end, I can't help feeling like I dragged him down with me. Only, Eli was strong where I wasn't. _That's what the problem was._

When she did speak, she asked me what I thought I was doing. I told her, like it was obvious, "Walking with Eli. Duh." I don't know why I got so sassy. I think it was quickly becoming my default reaction.

It was actually no wonder I was becoming so aggressive. Eli had told me once that there was nothing wrong with being mad, and that if someone bothered me, I had the right to _defend_ myself. He was waiting to see if I could do it, I guess.

Boy, did that make her angry. She held up her hand, fingers splayed, but I never found out what she was going to do. Because then she was screaming. I looked at her, putting my hands down from my sorry attempt to protect my face, and saw that she was laying on the hard floor, hand bent at an odd angle.

Eli hadn't moved an inch. That's what it _looked_ like. He was breathing heavily beside me, fingers twitching, wringing the helm of his coat. Almost like he was _nervous_ , like he'd done something bad and was afraid he'd be punished for it. As it turned out, Eli rarely took that coat off, no matter how hot it was outside. It was kind of dirty, sometimes, and even though I asked him if he wanted to wash it, he only let me wash it when it was beyond the point of filthy.

(My mom once caught me and asked me where I got it from. I told her, "I found it," because I was afraid she would get mad at me for lying (she always thought I was lying when I talked about Eli, even when he was right there in front of her. She would always say, "I didn't raise a liar.").)

(She told me it belonged to my dad. And then she told me to be careful with it so it didn't break. She never told my dad. Either that, or he never asked for it. I guess I'll never know, _now_.)

Sara kept screaming that awful scream, and I just looked at Eli, bewildered.

"Eli-"

"We should go," he said, without letting me ask anything, and then he was grabbing my hand and leading me away to McDonald's. I never asked afterwards what had happened. I didn't need to.

_Eli had hurt Sara because she was trying to hurt me._

I didn't think there was anything wrong with that. He was defending me, right? Friends did that all the time.

But, this wasn't the last time it happened. Ever since then, Sara told everyone I was crazy, dangerous and violent, and some people tried to "do something about it", but every time they rose a hand against me, Eli took care of it.

He was ruthless and quick enough that I never saw him move. Sometimes the kid would get in a good beating, and when I was laying in bed that night, nursing a sore arm or a swollen eye, crying because I was _such a baby_ for letting them hit me and not saying a word when the teachers asked, Eli would come into my room, coat mysteriously gone, and give me pills for the pain. He would stay by my side until I felt better, until the bruises were gone, and then he would go out, in a clean coat, as soon as he was relatively certain that I was alright on my own.

I asked him once where he was going, and he gave me an unexpected answer: "Hunting."

I left it at that, thinking he meant the same thing my dad did on the weekends with with his brother.

And I never asked where the liquid had come from, why it was _so red_ , because I "knew" it was animal blood.

And it continued like this. It was a pattern. He'd defend me, and when it got too tough, or we were outnumbered, he'd go out "hunting" when I recovered, always with a clean coat, and the machete that my dad brought with him outside to take care of the weeds around the cabin he stayed in for hunting season.

My dad wound up getting another machete, because his original went missing one day and never showed up, afterward.

Eli kept going hunting. And then, suddenly, everything _stopped_. The beatings just _stopped_.

One day, the kids just _left me alone_. It seemed like the hallways were emptier, but I had no idea where the other kids had gone. And most of the people who stayed didn't say a _word_ to me for _**years**_ to come. Not that I cared.

I was just glad that I could walk down the hallways alone without fear of being followed by whispers and laughs.

Eli sounded very happy when I told him that. He laughed that weird laugh that always creeped out my brother when he heard it. (My brother used to barge into my room and accuse me of making that noise, telling me to "cut it out".)

It didn't sound weird to me (it was just Eli), so I never bothered feeling worried that his laugh didn't sound like it _used_ to, anymore.

And he never told me what he did to make them stop, but now, _I know_.

Eli hurt people, and the rest who disappeared were too scared to come back to school, to stay in town.

The peace came and stayed for a few years, and when I was fifteen, a boy asked me out to the movies. It was a boy I'd liked for a few months, a boy named Ray. I didn't think he knew about my reputation. He couldn't have - or else he wouldn't have wanted to _turn the corner_ with me, much less _go out_ , **alone** , with me. He was really smart. I'd always liked them smart. I could never be attracted to a boy who was dumber than Eli.

Some of them pretended, to impress me, that they knew what I was talking about whenever I went on a tangent about stuff I was interested in (like my favorite movies and what I thought about the theories of alien life), but Eli always laughed and told me not to waste my time with those "liars".

And I always listened. I'd never _not_ listened to Eli.

So when Ray asked me to see a new movie about alien invasions ("The Arrival") with that nervous look on his face, expecting me to say "no" because I didn't spend much time with other kids my age, he was surprised when I accepted his invitation.

I told Eli as soon as I got home. Eli was interested (anyone who liked alien invasion movies was "pretty cool" to him), and wanted to meet him.

So we did. I took him to Ray's house. And turned the corner just in time to see Janelle, probably my only friend left (besides my acquaintances, who I could never be sure saw me as their "friend"), came out of his house, holding his hand. At first, I wasn't sure what I was seeing. I was confused, and beginning to feel stupid. Because of my prolonged confusion, I wasn't ready when Ray laughed and told me that I was "stupid" if I'd _really_ thought he'd be into the Town Psycho. Janelle didn't say anything, to me or to him. She just had this look of fear in her pretty little face.

I left. Without another word. And I didn't turn my head a single time to look back. Eli was quiet the whole time we walked back.

And I know how bad this sounds, but I never felt sad at all when I found out that Ray went missing that night and was found a few allies down, dead, haphazardly tossed into a dumpster. They said the cause of death was asphyxiation. He had died choking on his own blood.

Now, look, I know you're thinking I'm making this all up to excuse what happened later. But I'm really _not_. I never hurt _**anyone**_. Never. I've always been "mommy's angel". Why would I hurt anyone?

It was when I was seventeen that the aggression got worse. I was always arguing with everyone. My dad, my mom, the teachers, the other kids. Nobody knew what was wrong. And then one night, I got into a fight with my brother, for the first time in my whole life, and broke his nose. Without even _thinking_.

Dad sent me away to my room while they took him to the clinic, and mom?

Mom looked so disappointed. That was what hurt the _most_.

Eli's posture was kind of stiff.

"You hurt your brother?" he asked quietly. "Did he do something to deserve it?"

It sounded like he was accusing me, and even though I knew he was just worried, that I was being stupid, I felt hurt. Annoyed and sad that he would even think _**I**_ was the one at fault. It was _me_ who had always told him that family was more important than pride, that family doesn't hurt family.

I told him to go away, for the first time since I'd met him.

He didn't say anything, then, and for the first time in years, I slept soundly.

The next morning is when it started.

When I woke up, Eli was gone. No matter where I looked, I couldn't find him. It was like the first grade all over again. I cried and begged, saying _I hadn't meant it_ , that _I wasn't thinking clearly_. I even told him I loved him, like I did sometimes, because I knew he liked it when I said it aloud.

But he wouldn't show up. Not for _weeks_. Not even for a _year_.

I never gave up on hoping that he'd come back. I was right on the cusp of graduation when he finally did. I was in my room, hanging up the graduation robes for the following Sunday, which is when I would finally graduate out of this hell and move somewhere better than the town I hated the most.

I remember feeling so relieved. I'd fallen apart right around the time Eli had left me for good, because I had no idea what to do what all the negative emotions I was so used to hashing out with him. It was decided that I'd been depressed because of everything that had happened in my earlier years, and had lashed out for that reason. They wrote me a prescription for medication (Celexa, if I remember this right), and my grades rose again once I got some semblance of a grip on myself. Though I had to study _more_ now than ever before, considering that Eli, my personal tutor, was gone, I really felt like I was doing better, now. And though my grades weren't perfect, anymore, they were _still_ better than they had been for months.

I was relieved because I had finally let myself grow up. Part of growing up, I remember telling myself, was admitting that Eli had _never existed_. That he had just been my way of coping with the stress. That's what Doctor Henderson had told me. That _I_ had been the one to hurt those kids, and the ones that were missing? Not related to me.

(And I admitted - I was angry, but I _**never**_ hurt anyone besides my brother.)

It was kind of depressing, to think I'd wasted so much time by myself, rejecting all my friends and the childhood I could have had because of someone who'd _never been there_. I looked at the mirror, studying the new lipstick I'd brought, when suddenly, the image distorted. The glass shattered right in my face. I screamed and fell back, holding my face, but when I drew my hand back, dizzily, there was no blood or pain. Just smeared lipstick.

I shot up and looked at the mirror, again, cautious and afraid. But I wasn't seeing _myself_ , anymore.

Eli was back. Everything I did, he mimicked. As if I were looking at _**him**_ , instead.

But then, when I was thinking maybe I should just forget about it and go down to dinner, when I was beginning to wonder if I was seeing things again, he stepped forward. _**And I couldn't move**_. He rose a single, gloved hand. Eli had always worn winter clothes, even in summer. Those were the gloves I'd brought him when I was thirteen, because his hands had been freezing.

Clenched in that hand was the handle of my dad's missing machete. Stained red, like the blade. Dripping.

Blood, I realized, strangely calm in the face of such implications.

(I guess I _still_ believed I was seeing things.) But then he smiled. I don't know _**how**_ I knew. That damned mask, the one he never took off, it wasn't letting me see his face. And for once, this was something I didn't like, something that worried me.

He smiled, a terrible smile I was half-glad I couldn't see, and then I was seeing black.

When I came to, _you have to believe me_ , I was dizzy and confused, and my nose caught whiff of the most horrible stench that you couldn't even _**begin**_ to imagine.

I got to my feet, and felt a wave of pain in my face. I screamed and fell back, clutching my face, feeling nothing but normal skin, wondering if I'd finally lost it. There was a loud clattering.

I got up. And in the mirror, I could see what had happened.

There was blood running down the length of my face, mostly from various open wounds that would soon scar something terrible. I was _**terrified**_.

Had _Eli_ , my closest friend, my _only_ friend - someone who _never existed_ \- done this to me? Then, I turned around, and saw just _what_ had fallen from my hands. _My dad's machete_. It was just... just _**covered**_ in blood. The once shiny metal was no longer reflective, but only gave off a dull glow of red. "Jesus," I muttered, and backed away, right into the mirror of the living room. I turned, quickly, and saw him dart from the corner of the mirror. I spun, thinking I'd see him, but Eli was nowhere to be seen.

I turned back to the mirror, slowly, and saw him dart into the bathroom. I followed him, screaming for him to stop, asking for explanations, half-hoping I was only imagining things, that I'd fallen asleep in class or in my bed or in the car - _**something**_ to indicate that _this wasn't real_. That's when I froze in the doorway. There, in the near-brown water, was Lock. Fur bristled and clumped. Floating, motionless.

Eli had drowned my brother's cat. But why was _**I**_ the one with the scratches!?

I made my way to go and tell my parents, shakily, wondering how on Earth I was going to explain this without implicating myself, wondering why everything had to fall apart when I was _finally_ getting my life together, but then I screamed, again, and had to stop myself from swaying, violently, on the spot. My parents were dead, gutted like fish and strewn across their large bed. _No, no no, Eli, no, you're not supposed to hurt the people who loved me!_

I was so messed-up about this that I _almost_ didn't hear my brother screaming. But then I spun around and darted into his room, upstairs, across from mine. The blood on my face was beginning to feel sticky, and I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open once it started to dry.

I almost shuddered when I saw Eli, for the first time in months. He was holding my brother by the top of his head, grasping his hair painfully, that death grip he always had on his beloved machete. The same, infernal mask covered his expression, like always, but I could _feel_ the anger coming from him.

"Do you love me, Anna?"

"Let him go!" I screamed. He sighed, heavily, before holding up his other hand, the one holding the machete.

I was startled. Had he somehow gotten back downstairs and retrieved it without my noticing it?

"Remember what you made me do, Anna. Remember what you made me do." He stroked my brother's throat, almost lovingly, before bringing the blade down and slicing through skin, flesh, and bone. He tore my brother's head clean off before my eyes. I couldn't even scream. I just watched. I nearly couldn't believe it was really happening.

It never occurred to me to try and stop him.

Then, the realization hit home, and I swayed, falling to my knees.

There were heavy footsteps as he approached me. Then, he was lifting me up to look into his eyes, those cold blue eyes I would never again be able to love or trust. _**He had killed my whole family**_. I couldn't understand _why_.

Didn't he love me? Why would he do something like this? Something that would only hurt me?

He started to laugh that same laugh my brother hated, and then he held up his blood-stained glove to wipe the blood from my face, like he used to wipe my tears when I was still a little girl who believed in him and hated the world around us.

"Anna, _you hurt your brother_." He paused, and then tilted his head. Just slightly. Not enough for me to notice if he hadn't been right in my face. He used to do it all the time. But now, it wasn't cute. Now, it was - it was _creepy_.

"Did he deserve it?"

"I didn't hurt him, Eli, and _you know it_!" I was angry, now, and upset, too, on the verge of a breakdown that had been coming for _**years**_. One the likes of which Doctor Henderson and my parents could never imagine as possible. He clicked his tongue, something my mom used to do when she knew I was lying.

"Liars don't go to heaven," he told me, very matter-of-fact, sounding like my mom when _she_ said it.

" **I'm not** _ **lying**_!"

He stared at me, quiet for a few seconds, then a minute, and I was afraid I'd made him angry.

"What a mess," he said, right when I was beginning to feel like I was on the verge of passing out, almost _casually_. He took a few steps and kicked my brother's severed head so that it rolled away from us, out into the hallway. "Clean up after yourself when you make a mess, Anna. _Messy children_ grow up to be _messy people_."

"Stop doing that," I wanted to hit him, but I was too scared to dare it.

"Doing what, Anna?"

"Stop mocking my mother, _please_." I didn't want to cry in front of him, for the first time since we'd met. So I shoved my face into my hands, and I tried desperately to control how my shoulders shook. But he knew. He had seen all the signs, before. This time, he didn't comfort me. This time, he dropped me, and I fell, and he _laughed_.

Like this was all just a _**joke**_ to him.

"I'll do what I want, you crazy bitch."

"Why are you mocking them?" I didn't understand. What was he trying to do? And _why_?

(Was he angry that I had rejected him?)

"I'm not mocking _them_ , Anna," he said, crouching down before me as he thumbed his machete. "I'm mocking _you_."

"What?" My voice was a whisper.

"You've always been so scared, Anna. So scared of your parents. So scared of your friends. So scared of _them_." He sounded like he couldn't quite believe it, like he was disappointed. "It was kind of funny. A little _pathetic_ , really. But mostly just very funny." His words were cold and cut deeper than any knife. "I expected better from my sister."

" _ **You're**_ not _**my brother! You**_ killed _**my brother**_!"

"No," he corrected me, placing the tip of the blade against my chest. " _You_ killed your brother."

I fell silent, not quite certain where he was going with this blame-game, and then he plunged the blade into my chest. I took a deep breath, _quite possibly my last one_ , but felt no pain.

I looked down, afraid of what I would see, and saw that his blade had not cut me because there was _nothing to cut_. It had struck through the wooden floor, and he pulled it out, almost as if he'd expected this to happen.

"Now who's _imaginary_?"

 

* * *

 

When the cops finally arrived to my house, Eli was long gone. I only knew they came because he hid in a large bush outside my home and waited for them, only because I couldn't _bear_ to leave until I knew for certain they found my family.

He just crouched low, grasping my hand tightly, mocking me with his _silence_.

"Imaginary Anna," he finally said, mirth twisting what I thought must be a beautiful and cruel face. "Anna is imaginary." I was the only one with an ugly face to hide, now. But he wouldn't let me hide it. He said it didn't matter because _no one would see my ugly face_.

I cried when he said that, and for a moment, he was the Eli from the past. He wiped my tears, and then he cleaned my face from all the blood, before he began to laugh again.

"Where are we going?" I asked, afraid of his answer. I had nowhere _to_ go, nowhere I _could_ go. It was as if suddenly, Eli were the center of my universe. I could never stray too far.

(He had told me it was the same for him when _**he**_ was the one who "didn't exist", and taunted me, saying it wasn't safe to wander too far, because then it might be _difficult to come back_.)

"Hunting," he said, with that same _**anger**_ in his voice from my childhood years.

 

* * *

 

So, do you believe me, yet? He - **_it_ ** \- doesn't know I'm writing this. Eli is "asleep" - he does this rarely, but these are the only hours when I'm able to escape all the screams and the blood. God, the _**blood**_. His coat is always spotless, and his weapons change, depending on **_its_ ** "object of interest", so there's no "murder weapon" to speak of, not ever for very long - but that doesn't stop the blood from soaking into his boots. They are permanently stained red.

What happened to my once-beloved friend? Why did he become this monster?

Now that I think about it, this could be all _**my**_ fault.

If only I had sought help, if only I hadn't kept all my problems to myself, "Eli" might never had any reason to keep coming back. This wouldn't have happened if I had just let him go when I should have.

But _now_ , my part in this is done. It's too late for me, but not for **_you_ ** \- you still have time.

 _ **Please**_. Protect your family like I couldn't protect mine. Protect everyone you love. Because if you don't, Eli will get them. He'll get them, and he'll make you watch yourself kill them all - and then, he'll erase you. I have nothing left. **_I am nothing_**. Don't let that happen to you.

I don't want Eli to have any more prey. _**Please**_. I try to stop him, but I can't. He's too fast and too strong, and in the end, he only laughs at me as everyone just bleeds out on the floor, all over his boots.

The only way it can't hurt you is if you don't trust it, not even for a _second_.

Be wary of strangers. Especially if you can't see their ugly face.

And whatever you do, if you see something in the corner of your eye darting about, don't look in the mirror.

That's where he's strongest. Where he waits. He waits very patiently, until you trust him, until you trust _yourself_ , until you think you are safe and happy, and then he **_uses_ ** you, eats up everything you care about and discards the rest.

He waits in _every single one of us_. He already used me. Don't let him use **_you_** , too.

He's not you, and you're not him. And if you let your guard down?

He'll hunt.

 _ **Again**_.

And _**again**_.

And _**again**_.

Don't trust Eli Foster. Don't trust yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah. The "phobia of mirrors". I wanted to try a little bit of that.
> 
> By the by, I'm not saying whether it was her imagination or not. Whether she killed them all in a fit of "fantasy", or if there's something crazier going on than schizophrenia and paranoia. That would ruin the fun.
> 
> Half the fun is in the mystery of not knowing, after all.


End file.
